


a knife in the dark

by caughtinkhanded



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Like so much angst, be warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:51:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caughtinkhanded/pseuds/caughtinkhanded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end had not come in a blaze of fire or crash of lightning. It had come in the middle of the night while your people slept peacefully in the pseudo safety of Polis. There had not been a wild fight, a frenzied last stand for survival. </p><p>No. Everything you had sacrificed for, fought for, bleed for crashed down with a whisper. </p><p>"You must leave now, Heda. We are running out of time."</p>
            </blockquote>





	a knife in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> dialogue in italics is Trigedasleng

**a knife in the dark**

 

The end had not come in a blaze of fire or crash of lightning. It had come in the middle of the night while your people slept peacefully in the pseudo safety of Polis. There had not been a wild fight, a frenzied last stand for survival.

 

No. Everything you had sacrificed for, fought for, bleed for crashed down with a whisper.

 

“ _Heda, you need to leave. Now. Azgeda’s attack will fall within the hour._ _We must get you out of the city._ ” You shot up, your hands instantly searching for your knife. Titus’ pale face loomed out of the darkness. It took you a moment to register his words, realization crashing into you brutally.

 

You are up in an instant, searching for your armor. You will fight. You will always fight. But Titus clutches at your wrists, his large hands enveloping your thin wrists. (“ _You’re like a little bird, Leksa._ ” Anya had always said. “ _They will always underestimate you._ ”)

 

“ _No, there is no time nor do you have the forces. The Coalition has collapsed. You must survive._ _You are Heda, Leksa._ ” His voice sounds grimmer than it ever has before like the final dying embers of a pyre.

 

“ _Titus…_ ” Your words catch in your throat, grating like a thousand knives. You cast your eyes around, the remnants of all your past lives surrounding you.

 

“ _You must leave now. We are running out of time._ ”

 

You hesitate again before moving to gather your essentials. Any of your ceremonial items will have to be abandoned. (“ _Heda is everything. You are our past, present and future._ ” Gustus had told you once.) Your hands ghost over your many swords, eventually settling on Anya’s old blades – the blades you had grown up admiring, the blades you had yearned to hold, the only solid thing left of Anya. Your father’s knife joined Anya’s blades, as did your mother’s favorite book.

 

Titus hands you a bag, filled with clothes and supplies you assumed. You stop at your dresser. Costia’s necklace, the one with the stone she had claimed was the same as your eyes, laid innocently next to the pouch where you kept the braids of those important to you. After looping the necklace around your neck, and tucking the pouch into your pack, you turn to Titus, his wise face drawn in fear.

 

“ _Come, Heda. You will leave through the tunnels. There is still time before Polis falls._ ” The last two words pierced your heart painfully. Your home, the sanctuary you had built for your people, falling. How did it come to this?

 

You are half way out your door when you stop, “ _What of Klark_?”

 

“ _She will meet us outside her room. If she is not ready you must leave without her. The Skaikru will side with Nia and she will survive._ ”

 

“ _You know that is false, Titus._ ” You growl. You abandoned Clarke once and you swore on your knees that you would be loyal to her. You will not sacrifice your heart again. It has bleed too many times on the altar of your people (so many have bleed out on that altar: your _nontu_ , your _nomon_ , your village, Costia, Anya, Gustus; when will it stop?). “ _I will leave with Klark_.”

 

You rush through your home, reminded of happier times, where you and Costia had found all of the best hiding spots much to Anya and Gustus’s irritation. These hallways were filled with secret kisses and smiles.

 

You can hear the movements of the guards as you and Titus reach Clarke’s quarters (they are off – something is not right).

 

Clarke is standing outside of her room, dressed once again in the ratted clothes she had arrived in. A pack similar to yours is slung over one shoulder.

 

“Lexa,” she breathes out in greeting, as if she is glad to see you (someday you hope).

 

“You must get going. The hour is nearly up,” the gong of the bell punctuates his words and the night air is rent apart with a scream and the clash of metal. “Go.” He hisses again, pushing at both of you.

 

Clarke begins to move, but you hesitate. Titus is the last one (there had been Anya, and Gustus, and so many others). You reach forward for his arm. “ _Mochof, Titus. You will not be forgotten._ ”

 

“ _You are our only hope. Never forget who you are, Leksa kom Trigedakru. You must travel west. There are those who will help you._ ” You could almost see tears in his eyes as you turn away. “ _Ste yuj._ ” His final words are barely a whisper, a plea, a prayer to a god who never listens.

 

Clarke is waiting at the end of the hall, a knife clutched in her hand. You lead her through the back passages, fighting against memories of another girl you loved. Another scream of pain echoes from a lower floor. Your people will not go down without a fight. Your heart simultaneously surges with gratitude and pride, and shatters at the thought of their sacrifice. And all for a girl who will abandon them.

You round a corner into the back of a warrior dressed in furs and white paint. You quickly end his fight with a slash across his neck. His red blood spills effortlessly across your floors. You continue on.

 

Clarke follows without hesitation, her hand seeking out yours. Her hand in yours fills you with a hope that propels you forward. You must live for your people, for Clarke.

 

One of your oldest cooks motions to you to follow her through the kitchens. She always gave you and Costia the burned cakes and looked the other way when you hid in the kitchens from your duties. “ _Through this door and then down the stairs. You will end up on the 2 nd floor, cross the hall there and climb down the elevator shaft into the tunnels._” You nod, marveling at this woman’s bravery. “ _I will always follow you, Heda Leksa._ ”

 

You and Clarke dart through the door and down the stairs. And then you freeze.

 

“ _Find Leksa and bring her to me._ ” Ontari’s voice rings through the hallway. She stands between you and freedom. “ _Our kwin wants her alive, but in what condition it doesn’t matter. And bring any of her advisors or staff as well. All will bow before Kwin Nia before their fights end._ ”

 

You press yourself to the wall, searching for Ontari. You will kill her. Make Nia suffer.

 

“ _We will never bow before you._ ” Another voice causes your heart to plummet. Aden. “ _Nightbloods!_ ” His voice is still too high. He is still too young. They are all still too young. (“ _Heda, someday, I’m going to be taller than you.”_ Aden declared not two weeks ago. Now he would never.) You know what Ontari is capable of. You know what she’s done. It was not Roan who tortured Costia. He may have dealt the final blow, but it was Ontari who destroyed her.

 

Ontari let out a cackle that set your blood alight. “ _Stand aside, little boy._ ”

 

You can see Aden’s knuckles tighten around his sword, standing proudly in front of his brothers and sisters. (His feet are still not even) “ _Nowe._ ” They all chorus. Your heart pounds painfully. Clarke’s fingers dig into your wrist, grounding you.

 

“ _Leksa will be on the highest floors. Go._ ” Ontari waved lazily at her warriors.

 

As the Azgeda warriors advance, the Nightbloods drop into fighting positions, their faces fierce and still covered in baby fat. “ _Kos Heda!_ ” Aden yells and his fellows repeat it.

 

Aden charges forward, easily killing the first warrior.

 

But they had no chance. The first to die is Hanne, an angry wound blooming across her chest (she had not even received her war paint yet).

 

One by one, your Nightbloods fall. Swords clatter out of too small hands and whimpers of pain echo.

 

Aden cries out again, “ _Kos Heda!_ ” but his voice sounds weaker. Streaks of black blood cling to his clothing as he fights back to back with Tania, the second oldest.

 

Then an Azgeda warrior shoves his sword up through her stomach and out her back. She let out a whimper of pain.

 

You want to scream. You want to help.

 

Clarke has pinned your body to the wall, hugging you close to her. You didn’t even know you had been fighting against her.

 

“ _Well fought, little boy._ ” Ontari’s drawl echoes in your ears (“ _She was a pretty thing, wasn’t she? Her screams were even prettier._ ” she had drawled in your ear as her aunt signed the Coalition treaty). “ _You could be a great warrior under Nia._ ”

 

“ _I will never serve her._ ” He growls, his voice shaking in pain. “ _Trikru will not bend the knee. Heda will prevail. Azgeda is-_ “ he stops, a pained gurgle spilling from his lips, dying his mouth black.

 

Ontari brushes past him with a cackle. You push against Clarke. “Let me, please.” You whisper, but Clarke shakes her head.

 

Aden surges to his feet despite the blood spilling from his chest. He swings at Ontari and you can hear her grunt of pain. Pride surges within your shattered heart. Another hiss of pain reaches your ears and you know it is not Aden. “ _You little brat,_ ” she seethes, “ _look around you. Your Heda is gone. Your precious Nightbloods are dead. Stop fighting._ ”

 

“ _Nowe._ ”

 

“ _Then I will end your fight for you._ ” Clarke clamps a hand over your mouth to stifle your scream, pressing your face into her shoulder.

 

“ _Split into groups of four and search the floors until you find Leksa._ ” Ontari’s voice was cool as if she had not just murdered a group of _yongon._

 

Clarke kept her hand over your mouth until Ontari’s footsteps faded away. She releases you and you stumble out of the hidden staircase. Your Nightbloods lay dead at your feet, their dark blood tainting the floors.

 

“ _Yu gonplei ste oden,_ ” the words feel foreign in your mouth as if you have never said them before (that’s a lie: you have said them too many times before). You drop to your knees in front of Aden, so many wounds littering his young body.

 

“ _My brave, brave boy, you fought well, Aden. Yu gonplei ste oden._ ” You close his eyes gently. Everything within you shudders as you take in the war paint he had clumsily painted: it was yours, three streaks on either cheek. His hair was never braided so you take the bracelet he always wore, fastening it to your own wrist.

 

Clarke tugs at your arm at the sound of new footsteps. “Lexa, we have to go. Now.” You nod numbly, following after her. You cast one look back to the bodies of your Nightbloods before following Clarke into the elevator shaft.

 

The climb down is quick. Your stomach rolls at the sight of the two guards dead. There had already been so much death in such a short amount of time. And there would be more.

 

You stare back up the elevator shaft. It feels as if you left your heart up at the top of the tower.

 

A scream reverberates down the elevator shaft, a woosh of air following closely behind. Clarke barely pulls you out of the way before a body hits the ground where you had been standing.

 

The cook who helped you. Her body is twisted unnaturally, her face torn up by a blade. All because she helped you.

 

Anger like you haven’t felt in years fights its way through your blood. You will not allow your people to be slaughtered.

 

But Clarke pulls you back. “No, Lexa. You can’t do anything for them.”

 

“They’re my people. I will not let them die for me.” Your voice is so much more broken than you expected, the words tumbling and cracking out of your lips. You turn away from the blonde, grabbing the rungs of the ladder. A set of warm hands tug at your waist, forcing you to face her. Those hands then cup your cheeks (you hadn’t realized you had been crying until then).

 

“Your people need you to live. I need you to live. Lexa, do not make their sacrifice in vain.” She inhales a shaky breath, tears also spilling from her eyes. “All these people would give their lives for you and you will avenge them. But you can’t do anything right now. You need to survive. Aden and the other Nightbloods gave their lives so you could escape. Survive for them.”

 

Your lungs and the air seem to be in disagreement as you gulp down air but it does nothing. Clarke’s thumbs are still running across your cheekbones.

 

“We need to go.” Clarke’s words are barely a whisper and you nod. Her hands drop away and you keenly feel their absence, your skin yearning for her touch. You grasp her hand (it is the only tethering you to this earth).

 

The pair of you flee into the darkness, faint sounds of death floating in the air.

 

The old tunnels wind endlessly beneath the earth. Finally you come upon an opening. The smell of the earth assaults your senses, mixing with the blood on your hands. Your breath catches in your chest as you lean against a tree, scrubbing at Aden’s blood on your hands. His unseeing eyes flash before you and you nearly fall over.

 

An owl coos softly into the night, unaware of the death in the city behind him.

 

Tendrils of smoke curl upward into the night as Polis burns. As your life’s work burns. A sob (you don’t know who’s) is wrenched into the cool air around you (you know who’s it is).

 

You give yourself a moment, focusing on your breathing (“ _If a warrior cannot find balance within themselves, they will not fight on balance._ _You must control your breathing. Control your breathing, control your blade._ ” Anya had then shoved you into the mud because you were breathing too loudly).

 

“You ready to go?” Clarke’s voice sounded just as shaky as you felt. She reached out a hand for you and you took it, praying to the gods she would give you strength.

 

“Yes.” The croon of a war horn interrupts your next words. You tug Clarke along, finding an appropriately high tree. “We need to climb.” But the Azgeda warriors were too close. “Clarke, stay behind me.” Anya’s blades have never felt more natural in your hands as you slice and slash and spin your way through the small scouting party. Your blood sings for the blood of your enemies. In what feels like mere moments, the entire scouting party lay dead at your feet.

 

Your enemies’ blood coats your face like some gruesome war paint. Another group comes upon you and your blades are just as eager to taste their blood.

 

But you cannot fight forever.

 

“ _Heda,_ ” a gruff voice says as you pull your blade from a woman’s chest. A bubble of hope wells within you for a moment at the familiarity of the voice, but reality crashes down quickly.

 

“ _Claude_ ,” Gustus’ brother, a farmer, looks nearly identical to his brother, holding a long sword and a look of anger.

 

“ _Azgeda attacked my farm. They burned my family alive in our home._ ”

 

You squeeze your eyes shut for the briefest of moments. “ _I am so sorry._ ”

 

“ _I will fight for you. You and the Skai girl must escape._ ” His eyes dart to Clarke then back to you. “ _Run. Live to fight another day._ ”

 

“ _Mochof, Claude. Your bravery is unmatched. May you see your family again._ ” You clasp arms briefly before turning away (“ _But Onya, why would you walk away from a fight?_ ” You asked many years ago. “ _It is not wise to always fight. But if you wish to get beaten again, by all means._ ” She had then beaten you so badly you needed a crutch for a week—she proved her point.).

 

Clarke is quick to reach for your hand and your heart beats a little faster. As you weave through the trees, you can hear the clash of steel and the last cries of the dying. A shout of “ _Jus drein jus duan!_ ” that sounds so familiar reverberates through the forest. You hoist Clarke into a large tree, scrambling up behind her.

 

You are assaulted once again with memories of Costia as you follow Clarke up the branches. She had always teased you that you were more like a squirrel than a girl (which had led Anya to calling you little squirrel for a month), but she had always followed you up without hesitation.

 

Clarke tucks herself into a large notch in the truck, inviting you into her arms. You can’t remember the last time somebody held you. (Yes, you can. It was Anya. Costia’s head lay on the ground at your feet.) You shift slightly so you can see Polis on the distance.

 

“ _Jus drein jus duan._ ” You whisper, tears and blood drying on your cheeks. “Clarke, I can return you to your people if you wish.”

 

“No.” Her rapid response hangs in the air between you two uncomfortably. “I received a radio message from Octavia three hours ago saying that Nia offered my people a deal: join her or face annihilation. They joined her. Octavia overheard her ambassador to my people speak of a coup in Polis and she immediately radioed me. And then I told Titus.”

 

“There had been whispers. But there are always whispers. I am in your debt, Clarke.” Clarke nods, biting her lower lip as her eyes drift to Polis.

 

“What are we going to do?”

 

“I don’t know. Go west. Nia holds little power in the western clans, but we will have to travel through much Trikru territory. She will not rest until she has my head. And I will not rest until I have hers. I will not abandon my people.” Your words came out in a low growl, vibrating in your chest.

 

You sat in silence after your grim declaration, both sets of eyes fixed on Polis. Finally, the sun rose, a vivid, bloody gash across the sky.

 

“A red sun rises. Blood has been spilled this night.” Clarke brushes her thumb over the back of your hand. Your nerves tingle, tiny pinpricks of electricity.

 

At some point, you both drift off, leaning into each other, seeking some sort of solace. Your dreams are haunted (but when have they not been?) by the Nightbloods and Aden’s war paint and Hanne’s freckled cheeks and Titus’ fearful eyes. You jerk awake to the sound of war drums.

 

An army marches through your gates, stamping their feet and shouting their victory. Even from the forest, you can see their gruesome white paint. At the center of the army walks the queen’s guard, visible by their vivid blue uniforms. Your fingers itch for a weapon to drive into Nia’s heart.

 

“We should get moving.” You say, the words clipped.

 

Clarke nods, “You’ve still got some paint. We should wash that off.” Clarke’s fingers brush over your cheek and you practically swoon. (you were surprised she would even speak with you, let alone touch you)

 

You carefully help Clarke down the tree, hyper aware of where you place your hands. When one of your hands touches a bare strip of skin at her waist, it takes all your years of training not to react. Your feet firmly on the ground, the pair of you begin walking west in search of a stream.

 

As you stand at the crest of a hill, you cast one last look towards your city, your people. Clarke’s fingers tangle in yours. Smoke clogs the morning sky, still a bloody red from the rising sun. “We will come back. I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from the fellowship of the ring
> 
> this will probably be 2-3 chapters or simply a standalone.
> 
> say hi at yesheda.tumblr.com
> 
> ~ebh


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